Prejudice
by Bittah
Summary: It’s unfair this life, this place called New York. I don’t even remember the country I was born in, but that doesn’t stop them from calling me a dirty Pole, a damn Jew. All I remember are these filthy streets of New York.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This is a bit new for me. It's going to be a shorter fic and one that contains characters not normally spotlighted in Newsies Fanfiction, as well as a random original OC. I hope you guys enjoy it, because I really felt the need to reach out and try for something new. So please… Read and Review.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters played in Newsies. Disney owns them and won't let me own them, sadly. I do, however, own anyone else that appears in this fic, so help me God.

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_Prejudice_

Prejudice: the word seemed so foreign, but the concept of it? That hit more close to home. The old man at the bookstore next to Smiley's explained it to me. I didn't have a chance to tell him I understood his explanation of the word though. Some customers had come in, people with intent to buy. Then I was all but forgotten.

I wish the thugs on the street would forget me that easily. It's unfair; this life, this place called New York. I don't even remember the country I was born in, but that doesn't stop them from calling me a dirty Pole, a damn Jew. All I remember are these filthy streets of New York. I wasn't even old enough to hear stories about Poland. I was too young, always too young; even when my parents were murdered.

That was two years ago. I'm nine now, an illiterate orphan with nothing but the clothes on my back and the bread in my pocket. The only time I'd ever even held money was the day after my parents died. I looked so pathetic at seven with my dirt-stained body and teary, dull brown eyes. I was staring off down the street near the community graveyard: the only place they'd give us poor to rest in peace. No marble stones for my parents, nothing but a wooden stick protruding from the ground with their names scratched out messily upon it.

They let me sleep in the small rotting building they called a church that night, only to kick me out at daybreak. So I stood latently on the sidewalk for hours, just down the street from where my parents lay underneath the ground. I remember the priest apologizing for not giving them a traditional funeral, and I blinked at him, not knowing what traditional would mean in the sense of a funeral. I willed myself not to cry as I stood there, staring blankly at my surroundings.

This old woman paused before me, her kind grey eyes taking me in with pursed, crumbled lips. She approached slowly, hobbling along without the help of a cane. I noticed her hands shaking as she reached into her worn, thread-bare purse. A small change purse appeared in her hand, just as ragged. I realized then that it was not just her hands that were trembling, but her whole body. She unclasped the top with difficulty and I found myself lifting onto my tiptoes to see what it contained.

A solitary penny lay inside the silken folds of the container, the copper shining in the sunlight. I didn't say a word, sinking back onto the heels of my worn black shoes, the leather of them nearly disintegrated. She took the penny between her thumb and forefinger, reaching for my arm with a quivering hand. She grasped my wrist so lightly that the wrinkled fingers were just barely able to grasp at my frail arm. Lifting it, she pressed the penny into my palm, the cold of the copper feeling weighty in it as my fingers curled around it. Her gripped released my wrist, my arm falling back to my side.

All this time I stared at her, wordlessly. Did I look that pitiful, standing there on that street some years ago? Her eyes looked into mine, hers as light as mine were dark. The edges of her lips quivered, a smile appearing slowly across her aged face.

"Take care of yourself lad," she spoke in a wavering tone, much like that of a broken instrument. Her body turned and I simply watched as she limped away.

I knew I shouldn't have taken the penny, but my body hadn't been functioning right that day. I had stood there until dark, simply gazing at the heavy piece of copper resting in the palm of my hand.

I lived on the bread that penny bought me for a week. I slept in one alley or the next; my only blanket a few pages of the local newspaper. I never slept for long, in fear of getting caught and thrown in the Refuge. My parents had told me stories of the place, like other parents tell their children about monsters that will eat you if you don't eat every morsel of dinner. I believed them in all their seriousness, watching myself after dark on the nights I was alone.

I didn't have any siblings. I have no idea what I would've done with someone younger than me and no family nearby to help. I really was alone, no support and no hope to help me in these streets.

When the bread ran out, I picked through garbage cans behind restaurants late at night, half tired and uncaring of how rotten the food smelled. One night I was caught. Instead of throwing me to the bulls, they made me wash dishes from open to close the next day. There was another boy there, who observed me carefully. He was older than me by a few years and he had dark skin with darker hair.

The boy was quiet the whole time I was there, either cleaning the dishes in a sink next to me or watching me. Even with his eyes on me, I didn't feel a bit nervous. He didn't speak to me until I was about to leave. He had disappeared for a good few minutes, coming back to tell me I could work here for food.

I nodded at him, giving him my silent consent to tell the cook I'd be back daily. "What's your name kid?" the boy asked, taking in my dirty clothes and my distraught look.

"Michel," I said in a low voice, looking at my feet.

"They call me Boots," the black boy spoke, sticking his hand out towards me. I was too shy to ask why and my hand rose slowly to meet his. A firm grip and shake and I found myself grinning at the boy, whose smile was so wide the red of his gums shone out at me.

"I'll see you tomorrow," his voice was kind, his smile fading into one of pity, as if waiting for me to ask for a place to stay.

But I had pride, even at seven years old, and I told him I'd see him the next day. I've lived on the streets for two years now and not once have I asked for shelter.


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: _I don't own Newsies or Boots. I own Francis and Michel and any random characters that appear at random. This fic is good for me. I like that I'm doing something new, something more touching. So enjoy and please review.

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Boots saved my life three times in the past two years. The first time was helping me get that job. I had to meet the head cook of Smiley's the next day, a huge bulky German by the name of Francis.

A nod of approval and I was sent back to the sink; my arms wrinkled and wet throughout the whole day. I didn't care for the work, it was mindless and I wasn't one for talking.

Boots realized I had no intention of talking after the first week had passed. Instead of letting silence drift between the pair of us, he began to ramble off one story and then another. I let him. He had, after all, saved me from certain starvation.

I listened intently, doing my work at a slow and steady pace as Boots had advised me. He had told me that it was better to clean the dishes slowly then to accidentally break them. This small lecture was illustrated by an old tale of the tortoise and the hare, a bedtime tale that I had heard before. Boots claimed his mother had told him this tale repeatedly, though I vaguely considered Boots as an orphan and brushed aside his small mentions of family.

I knew Boots wasn't honest at times, his face turning up in a strange way every time he lied. It's hard to explain the look on his face when he did it. There was something slightly off in his eyes and his lips made a slight movement that was quite unlike him. Of course to be as cheerful as my dark-skinned fried was there had to be some lies involved, whether to others or to himself.

So I was never certain as to where Boots had heard all these entertaining stories, but I never dared to ask him outright. I liked his stories: some were adventurous, and some romantic in a way, but they all had one thing in common – a happy ending.

A few months of stories were told before he went off on a ramble, one late afternoon. "See Michel," he started, turning his attention towards me. My head was bowed in concentration over the sink and my eyes did not meet his. Nevertheless, he continued, "We all know about bad endings here, in New York, bad starts too."

He paused as if waiting for some acknowledgement, any sign that he had captured my attention. I let the echo of his voice drift for a moment before I slowed my actions, gently placing a clean plate onto the drying rack.

I knew the importance of what he was about to say, at least the importance of it to him. It would be some thought that would maybe save his cheerful nature and sanity that day. So I turned my eyes up, shaking my hands free of the dirty dishwater. I saw something strange in his eyes as his lips began to move again – his eyes were nearly glowing in their sockets, as if his soul meant to pour out through them. My pa had a term for people like Boots, calling them _stary dusza_, old soul.

"We gotta think we'll have it better some day Michel. That maybe we'll have our own place to kick our feet up, a family, something!" His voice sounded ragged and tired as he spoke and he shook his head, forcing a cheerful, toothy grin. "Maybe even a real job!"

That last part made me smile. Before I could even try to stop it, my lips were curling at the edges and my cheeks pinching. I turned my head back to the sink quickly, pushing the smile back. Boots let me, although I don't doubt his noticing it. It had been the first time I had smiled since my parents died, and it wouldn't be the last.

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The second time Boots saved my life, it happened too fast. I had been awoken from my bed of newspapers with a series of hard boots striking deep into my ribcage. The words of the three men above me were slurred together, my ears picking out only a few choice words, "…Jew…kike…" and many other unmentionables.

My eyes only opened slightly as my body curled into a defensive ball, shielding my aching ribs with my arms. "Get up! Get up!" one of them demanded of me, his eyes wild as his booted feet continued to collide with my body.

I remember the sobs, the pain, and the fear coursing through my body. Too groggy and malnourished to fight back, I had no choice to do anything other than take the beating, praying they'd stop before killing me. I found my eyes squeezing shut, the pain growing with the rapidness of the drunken thrusts of their shoes. Suddenly the kicks stopped, the ache of my body jolting a harsh cry from my lips, a cry partly for help.

Thumps, howls of pain, and yelling sounded, filling my ears and confusing me. _Had someone come to my rescue?_ My eyes opened but my vision was blurred, the figures in the dark blending together and twirling incessantly. I coughed; it was a hard and hollow sound against the sharp and colorful clamor of intense fighting.

A few minutes passed with my eyes closed again, my body in pain and unable to move. I feared the worst in those minutes, and as a warm hand touched my shoulder, I reacted wildly. Arms hitting out weakly, I heard a surprised yelp of pain and I dared to open my eyes slowly. Dark skin and two bright eyes caught me by surprise. Beside him stood the familiar bulky form of Francis, who was wiping his hands off onto his black pants, his lips drawn in a thin line of concern. Boots gazed wearily at me and shook his head.

A few whispered words exchanged between them, my ears ringing so hard with pain that the phrases escaped me. I felt consciousness slipping from my body as Francis stepped toward me, his body heaving to his knees. He grunted as his arms wrapped around my thin frame. I caught a glimpse of Boots, his smile washed out and eyes widened, trailing my body as I was lifted. Darkness fell over me and I let my body rest, knowing well that I needed it.

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	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Well here it is, the final chapter of this short, yet exceptional fic. I've loved this. So much that I may submit it to a contest, changing Boots' name. I hope you like this last segment. Again - Please Read and Review.

I woke in a bed, the first bed I had lain in since my parents' burial. It felt like heaven, even with the mattress coarse and brittle, the sheets worn and holy. As I shifted, I found that I was only half dressed, my chest bare. My eyes glanced around the darkened room, the only light coming from a set of dim candles scattered across a wooden dresser. The flame shifted, a wind nearly knocking the dancing light out, as the door to the sparse room opened.

A petite woman, no taller than five feet and slim in her shapeless dress, entered carefully, a cup of tea in her hands. Her eyes were a soft grey, kind and full of a flickering joy at the realization that I had woken from my unconscious state. I sat up too quickly and found myself falling back with a groan of pain. When I looked down I saw the bruises lining my stomach and I remembered then the brutality I had encountered some nights previous.

"Where am I?" I questioned her as she adjusted the pillows behind my head, with one hand balancing the cup.

"I'm Francis's wife," she spoke with a smile, encouraging me to take the warm cup into my hands, helping me grasp it. Her hands were warm on mine and I sighed as she released them, lifting the cup to my lips.

I drank in the warm tea, a lingering taste of honey compelling me sip feverishly at it. By the time I had emptied the contents of the mug, I found she had pulled a chair up next to me.

Taking the empty cup from my hands, she spoke, her voice a lilting Irish accent. "You've been out for some days now lad."

I felt my eyes avoiding hers, a heat rising to my cheeks in embarrassment. I never wanted to ask anyone for help, at a mere seven years of age I wished to be independent. In part it was the lack of parents that forced me into this mindset, but also my wish to not be a burden. So much had I cared for my family and it made my heart ache to think about that now.

My cheeks were wet now. I hadn't noticed until I saw her take out a white handkerchief and blot at them, then pushing the soft cloth into my hands. "Thank you…" It wasn't the last time I expressed my gratitude to her.

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A week later I was sleeping on the streets again, more cautious this time as to where I slept. Boots seemed concerned the first few weeks, constantly asking me if I felt better. That wasn't to be the last beating I ever had, but it was by far the worse. No one can ever avoid the inevitable I guess.

I kept working for food, although from time to time Francis slipped me a penny. I continued on this cycle of working and sleeping in the streets. I became more familiar with the area, loitering around the bookstore next door and pressing my face against the bakery as I watched fancy treats made for girls in swooshing dresses.

Yesterday, Boots saved my life for the third time. He had come to work all smiles as usual, but there was a different glow about him. Beaming, he told me he'd found something that would pay us real money, something even boys as young as us could do. My eyes widened slightly, knowing by his expression that he wasn't lying.

"We could sell newspapers Michel! I got some money to get us started, you buy them and then sell them and it ain't too bad, it's not like we'll be making dollars or nothing, but it something!" Boots was talking faster by the second, his hands emphasizing his high spirits.

He dragged me there that day, my eyes wide the whole way. Before I knew it, we were near Smiley's again, a pile of warm newspapers each. I stood frozen for minutes, watching Boots shouting out headlines, waving them around and harassing people on the street. I found myself braving it, scanning the paper wearily.

There was no way I could match Boots' vigor and my words came out in a short, shallow breath. How I managed to sell any was beyond me. I suppose some of them took pity on me, a variety of ten men, women, and children each taking one.

Then we were back to washing dishes. Everything seemed to happen so fast that by the end of the day I was surprised to be on my way out the back door of the kitchen. But Boots halted me half way through it, his eyes gleaming yet sad. They held pity for me, I realized a little late.

He had begun talking, tugging me into a street. "Michel, there's this place we can stay for real cheap for boys who sell papers, it's uh… a few blocks down and it's an okay place," he spoke as if trying to reassure me while also trying not to hurt my pride. "What do you think Michel, we could try it out for a night or two…"

I nodded, more enthusiastically than I had meant to. A bed sounded good, after these two long years of sleeping on hard pavement, not knowing if I'd be beaten that night or not. I can't say things are going to get easier from now on. I liked the place Boots had brought me too, but that don't mean I won't get beat on.

I mean, it's like that old man said, in that bookstore today. _Prejudice_: life just ain't fair.


End file.
